


Kindred Spirit

by GameMaster



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Ghost!Dream, High School, I wrote this at two am please spare me, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kid Fic, Piano, Platonic Soulmates, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:13:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29374404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GameMaster/pseuds/GameMaster
Summary: When George's supposedly imaginary friend reenters his life, he has to face some hard questions, and some harder answers.---“I must have unfinished business but I don’t have a clue as to what it is,” Dream said sadly, watching a child clutching a dandelion run past, trailing seeds as they went. “I assume it has something to do with you.”“Why me?” George asked.“I’m drawn to you. It’s the reason I was around when you were a kid and why I’m around you now.” The two sat in comfortable silence for a moment.“Why did you ever leave?” George asked finally. Dream sighed, sheet blowing around a bit in the soft breeze.“I’m not sure,” He replied quietly. “You were so young...I couldn’t fathom what I was supposed to do with you. So I traveled, and slept, and waited to be drawn to something other than you, but it never happened.”“For five years?”Dream tilted his head. “Has it been that long?"---
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 91





	Kindred Spirit

George couldn’t remember when he started seeing the ghost. He certainly remembered when it disappeared from his life altogether.

“Why is that boy dressed for Halloween?” He would ask his mum whenever they visited the park. His mother insisted that it must be some imaginary friend, but George insisted that whatever it was, it was not a friend.

To some extent, the boy covered in a white sheet with a smile crudely drawn where the face would be, unnerved him greatly. He never spoke, and hardly ever got within ten feet of George. He just watched...waited.

For what? George couldn’t imagine but somewhere around the time he finished elementary school and started middle school, he began to see the ghost less and less. Occasionally, he would notice it far off down the school hallways or across the street when he walked home but it seemed to have lost its attachment for the most part.

By year nine, George had concluded that the ghost was an imaginary friend he had conjured up to deal with his loneliness, just as his mother had insisted. The boy in the white sheet seldom came to mind. It became one of the many things that simply passed through his life, never to be seen again. At least, not until year eleven.

“I’m taking Niki and Techno down to the sweet shop,” George’s friend, Will, said on a blustery London day. “You really should join us for once. They’d be happy to have you.”

George eyed his friend as he retrieved some materials from his locker. Will was great, but he was so bright and extroverted, and George was so...not.

“I’m sure they would, but if I fail this next math test, my mum will make me quit the programming club.” He stood, carrying a pile of materials so high it nearly cut off his vision. Wilbur frowned playfully.

“C’mon  _ Gogy, _ ” Wilbur teased, ruffling George’s hair. “Would it kill you to do anything other than sleep and study for once?”

“Quite possibly.”

Wilbur snorted and swung his backpack onto his shoulder. “Whenever you decide to get a life, you’ll know where to find me,” He snickered before running off to catch up with two of their other friends.

George sighed. Social interaction was so  _ tiring _ . If he had as many friends as Wilbur he would probably sleep eighteen hours a day.

“Bye, I guess,” George whispered to no one in particular. He closed his locker with his foot, not bothering to lock it. Not like there was anything in there worth taking unless someone really wanted to read his failed essay on Postmodernism in English Literature.

The hallways were mostly empty, with only a few stragglers left behind after everyone left school for sports or to hang out with friends. George shuffled his way to the library, doing his very best to not drop all of his work.

The library was unlocked but empty as always. As far as George was concerned, this was perfect as the last thing he needed was any loud peers or nosy librarians to distract him.

He found a well-lit corner table and dropped his stuff down, shaking out his arms to dispel the soreness. As intimidating as the pile of homework was, it’s not like he had anywhere better to be.

“All in a day’s work,” He muttered to himself, even the soft speech shattering the brittle silence of the library. Between the quiet and the dim lighting of afternoon fading to evening, the library could be eerie at times but frankly, George was much more scared of his Algebra professor than ghosts. At least, that’s what he told himself on nights like this.

He started his work, his left hand smudged with pencil from where it rubbed against his writing. His right hand played imaginary piano notes absently. It had become such a habit he often didn’t know what piece he was playing. This evening it was Frederic Chopin’s Nocturne No.2 in E Flat playing out in his subconscious, fingers tapping out the treble clef line from memory.

As he came to a particularly hard problem, his tapping stopped, silence settling over him over again. His hand hovered gently over the table as he read the problem over and over again in an attempt to bring himself some clarity.

“Why’d you stop?” A warm male voice with an American accent asked. George’s head shot up but was met with confusion when he realized that he was still alone. His eyes darted around, looking for any signs of life around the musty shelves.

“Is...someone there?” George asked, voice echoing slightly. No reply. Maybe this was a practical joke of Wilbur’s doing? Although, Will’s imitation of an American accent was not  _ nearly  _ that good.

Putting his confusion aside, George slowly continued to attempt the problem, right hand still hampered from playing. He could feel a gaze settle on him but, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out where they might be.

“At least tell me what you were playing.”

George’s gaze shot up once again to see a boy covered in a white sheet sitting across from him. Out of shock, George tumbled backward in his chair, knocking it over and finding himself on the carpet.

The ghost let out a strange sound, like when you slowly let the air out of a balloon. It took George a solid moment to realize that the creature was  _ laughing _ .

“Did I scare you?” The ghost wheezed. When it spoke, the smile on the sheet didn’t move but nor did anything under it. George shook his head quickly, rubbing his eyes, doing anything to wake himself up.

“You’re not real,” He said out loud, eyes shut and head between his legs. The ghost let out a noise that must’ve been a sigh.

“Some days I wish I wasn’t real,” It said. George opened his eyes to see the ghost still sitting at the table, watching him, head tilted.

“I must be having a seizure,” George muttered, standing and returning to his seat slowly, never letting the ghost out of his sight. “I remember you but, you weren’t real then and you aren’t real now.”

George obviously couldn’t see the ghost’s facial expressions but despite the crude smile, it seemed almost disappointed. Even worse, he almost felt pity for it.

“How did you come to that conclusion, George?” It asked solemnly. “You sure seemed convinced I was real until everyone told you I wasn’t.”

“Because they were right!”

It briefly occurred to George that he was yelling at a sad excuse for a ghost in an empty library, but it didn’t seem too important at the moment.

“I’m here now aren’t I?” It argued. George was becoming increasingly sure that it was not a person covered in a sheet, as it didn’t move like a person. It moved like there was a vent under it blowing air into it.

“Yes, and I must be having a psychological breakdown because of this godforsaken math homework.” George massaged his temples. The last thing he needed right now was a literal  _ ghost from his past _ bothering him.

“I can help you.”

“If you’re a ghost, how do you know algebra?” He could’ve sworn the sheet fucking shrugged.

“Honestly, there’s not much to do here.” George watched in astonishment as the ghost floated up a little and crossed over the table so it ‘stood’ next to him, confirming that it didn’t have legs. “The veil gets a little boring after a while.”

George nodded slowly, coming to terms with the fact that he was most certainly going insane. The ghost leaned (was leaned the right word?) over his shoulder to look at his work.

“Uh… (x+y )^ 2  doesn’t equal  x^ 2 + y^ 2 ” It said studiously. George examined his paper, finding the error.

“Why not?” He huffed impatiently. The ghost had the audacity to chuckle.

And on the evening went, the ghost helping George with each and every single one of his assignments, making sure he understood the answers he was writing down. Every time his gaze shifted to look the ghost in its ‘face’, George wondered what exactly Wilbur had snuck into his Ribena at lunch.

Soon, they were done, and George was unsure of what to do when the ghost floated with him to the library door.

“So, uh...thank you, I guess,” George said sheepishly. “I’m still half-convinced this is some sort of weird hallucination or practical joke. The sheet gave the appearance of shrugging once again.

“Your finished homework is very much real,” It sighed. Was George supposed to say goodbye? They never taught him Ghost Manners in school. Instead, George settled for a question that had been bugging him.

“Will I see you again?” He asked, quickly revising his statement. “That is if you’re real. I guess even if you’re a hallucination I may still see you again.”

The ghost nodded. “Yeah, probably. I think I’m meant to stick around for a little while, so yeah, you’ll see me again.”

“That’s...great,” George replied, surprised with how genuine it felt. “One last thing: What am I supposed to call you?”

The ghost looked up as if it was thinking about this. It hadn’t occurred to him that he might have a name. He hadn’t needed one in so long.  
“Well, you think I’m made up, right? Like a dream?” It asked. George gave half a nod and the ghost continued. “Then just call me Dream. That way if anyone asks what you’re talking about if you mention me, you can just say it was a Dream.”

“Sure...I guess that works,” George said slowly. “I guess, see you later...Dream.” The ghost did a little twirl.

“Yes, later! Soon, really,” Dream replied.

“Soon.”

. . .

Dream didn’t lie. It was soon. The very next day in fact, as well as the day after. Seeing Dream became a very strange yet reassuring routine in George’s life, and he learned a lot along the way.

One day, they sat on a park bench watching the sky. George had quickly learned that no one other than himself could see or hear Dream so he sat as far from other people as possible, worried that they might think he was crazy if he was talking to himself.

“If you’re a ghost, then you must have died, right?” George inquired lazily. Dream vaguely nodded his head to each side.

“I must have since, as you said, I am very much a ghost…” Dream paused. “I don’t remember it. I don’t remember my time alive either.”

“Do you know why you’re a ghost?

“I must have unfinished business but I don’t have a clue as to what it is,” Dream said sadly, watching a child clutching a dandelion run past, trailing seeds as they went. “I assume it has something to do with you.”

“Why me?” George asked.

“I’m drawn to you. It’s the reason I was around when you were a kid and why I’m around you now.” The two sat in comfortable silence for a moment.

“Why did you ever leave?” George asked finally. Dream sighed, sheet blowing around a bit in the soft breeze.

“I’m not sure,” He replied quietly. “You were so young...I couldn’t fathom what I was supposed to do with you. So I traveled, and slept, and waited to be drawn to something other than you, but it never happened.”

“For five years?”

Dream tilted his head. “Has it been that long? Time is a little hard for me as a ghost.”

“What is it like?” George whispered.

“Dying or being a ghost?”

“Well, you don’t remember dying so what’s it like being a ghost?”

As always, Dream’s crude smile was unwavering but George could tell that the question weighed on him. He took a moment to think before continuing.

“It’s a lot of waiting,” He said finally. “It that way it’s actually a lot like being alive but there are differences.”

“Such as?”

“I see things differently. Much more ‘big picture’ than I think you see things. I am meant to have a specific impact on someone’s life, apparently yours, and then I will pass on.”

George’s gaze dropped to his feet, and he felt a very dangerous question begin to bubble inside him.

_ What if I don’t want you to leave me? _

. . .

Another day, they once again sit in the empty library, George typing an essay for English Lit and Dream leaning over him, occasionally offering assistance.

“You spelled ‘color’ wrong,” Dream whined. George has half a mind to hit him but he couldn’t make physical contact with Dream, the sheet would just float out of the way.

“I’m British, we spell it with the ‘u’, remember?”

“Well, this is for English class, not British class, so you should really fix it.”

George slammed his head on the table and Dream doubled over wheezing with laughter. Eventually, George raised his head to see Dream sitting on the floor next to him.

“You make very modern jokes, Dream,” George observed, shutting his laptop. “Do you at least know when you died? How long have you been a ghost for?”

“Not entirely sure,” Dream admitted, laying down on the library carpet. “Not super long ago but time is hard, remember? When did you start seeing me?”

George shrugged, pulling his leg up into his chair to sit crisscrossed. “I don’t remember. I was too young and I didn’t even notice you at first.”

“What do I look like to you?”

“Like a lazy Halloween costume of a ghost. A white sheet but they didn’t even go to the trouble of cutting out eye holes. You just have a smile drawn on your face.”

“A smile?” Dream asked. He seemed surprised and George nodded.

“Yes, a smile with two dots for eyes.”

Over the days, George had gotten better at reading Dream’s emotions without having an expression to base it on but he was stumped. Confusion? Maybe even familiarity?

“Huh.”

“Does that mean anything to you?” George asked, gathering his stuff together and joining Dream in sitting on the floor. Dream huffed.

“Maybe. It feels like there’s something on the tip of my tongue but I… I’m just not sure.”

They sat in silence, save for George tapping out piano notes on the carpet. It was a soothing noise and once again Dream found himself wanting to ask the piece but he stopped himself.

“Hey,” Dream said, interrupting the silence. “You know how I said I’m going to make some kind of impact on you before I can pass on. I think it’s happening soon.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Well, you know how I’m drawn to you? Like a moth to a porchlight?”

“Sure.”

Dream paused for a moment before continuing. 

“You’re getting brighter, Georgie.”

George didn’t reply. He didn’t let himself, because he knew exactly what he would say if he did.

_ What if I don’t want you to leave me? _

. . .

Rarely, Dream would follow George home. On one such occasion, George played the piano while Dream sat and listened nearby, swaying gently to the music.

“You play very well, George,” Dream said when George finished a piece. George gave him a grateful smile and began to flip through his books of music

“Beethoven Piano Trio in D, titled ‘Ghost’,” George read aloud. “What a fitting name.”

“Can you play it for me?” Dream asked. George responded with a snort, closing the book and dropping it back on the piano.

“God, no. It’s way out of my skill level and it’s like thirty minutes long. Plus, it’s a trio so I’d need at least one other person to do it any justice.”

“Ah,” Dream sighed. “I would help you play it but...I don’t exactly have fingers so-”

He was interrupted when George burst out laughing, turning around on the piano bench to face Dream, still clutching his stomach.

“How are you meant to save my life or whatever if you don’t even have hands?” He wheezed, wiping away tears. Dream chuckled and leaned back in his seat.

“I don’t have to save your life, just make some kind of impact on you. A positive one, hopefully.”

“Hopefully?”

“Hopefully and soon,” Dream recited, nodding his head. George thought back to a previous exchange, something that had bothered him greatly.

“Am I still getting brighter?” George asked, not sure if he wanted to know the answer. After a moment of consideration, Dream nodded again.

“Definitely. You’re so bright it’s becoming tough to look straight at you. I think that means I’ll be done making my impact soon and I can move on.”

“That’s...great, Dream,” George said, struggling to keep the disappointment out of his voice. That unasked question came back to him again.

_ What if I don’t want you to leave me? _

. . .

It was a sunny day when Dream stopped George on his way home from school. It shouldn’t have been sunny.

“George…” Dream hesitated, seemingly choosing his words carefully. “I think it’s time for me to leave. I think I’ve made my impact.”

George had known it was coming but it still felt like a boot to the face. He felt the misery ball up in his throat, threatening to choke him.

“What if I don’t want you to leave?” He finally asked, fully aware that tears were beginning to blossom in his eyes. Dream looked sorry, that was the only way that George could explain it.

“It’s my time to go. I know it and so do you.”

“What exactly is the impact you’ve made on my life, huh?” George asked, trying and failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I’m still not great in school. I still have trouble making friends. What exactly has changed?”

“I think I was meant to teach you… ” Dream paused. “To teach you about loss George. To teach you what it’s like to love something and still have to give it up. To give up something  _ because  _ you love it.”

George sniffled. “You have an awfully high opinion of yourself assuming that I love you,” He tried to say jokingly. Dream smiled sadly.

“You didn’t have to tell me. I knew.”

“Does that mean it’s too late to tell you.”

“It’s never too late, Georgie.”

Nothing ever hurt as much as not being able to hug Dream in that moment, not being able to hold him tight and never let him go.

“I love you, Dream.”

“I love you too, Georgie.”

George used his sleeve to wipe tears from his eyes, not caring that he was sobbing in front of someone. It wasn't someone. It was Dream.

“I’m going to miss you.”

“I know,” Dream replied solemnly. George wasn’t ready quite yet.

“How did you really know that it was time?” He asked. That’s all he needed. One last bit of closure. Proof that it was really time for Dream to leave him.

“Your light,” Dream said softly, kindly. “It’s blinding. They say you see a blinding light when you die. Maybe you only see it when you’re ready to pass on.”

George let out a choked sob. A once figment of his imagination had grown into his closest and dearest friend over the months. He could get on without him. He  _ had  _ to. That didn’t mean he wanted to.

“Will I see you again?” He asked, letting tears fall freely, no longer feeling the urge to suppress them. Dream didn’t shake his head.

“Later,” He whispered

“Later?”

“Soon.”

_ Soon. _

**Author's Note:**

> If there are typos, feel free to point them out the in comments. I did write this at two am and it is unbetaed so it's entirely possible that it is a hot mess but I needed a good cry :]
> 
> As always, thank you dearly for reading. If you enjoyed drop a kudos or a comment, they make my day <3


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